


an unholy business

by duckybarnes (ysl_harrie)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Demon Bucky Barnes, Happy Ending, Identity Porn, M/M, Memory Loss, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Sub Bucky Barnes, Subspace, bucky barnes is an asshole, bucky barnes is very extra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26419759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ysl_harrie/pseuds/duckybarnes
Summary: Maybe it’s the sentimentality that causes Steve to blurt out, “Did you steal that shirt?”Bucky raises both eyebrows, lips working around the lollipop shoved in the corner of his mouth. “You are not good at this.”Supernatural meets Stucky AU
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 22
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Supernatural!Stucky… I think yes!! Some of the later scenes in this work were heavily inspired by one of my very favourite fics back in the day from a *cough* uh, v different fandom *cough* ~ Run Like the Devil by benzos. 
> 
> Side note: what does it say about me that everything I write either turns into a crack!fic or Angst with a capital A? 
> 
> Warnings: some blood and gore, dub-con medical-ish procedures, grieving of a (temporarily) dead character + discussion of character death, insinuation that Bucky was tortured and possibly raped.
> 
> Unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own! Please see endnotes for quotes credits and some Demon!Bucky art :)

_Even monsters bleed,_ he’d say. Offhand, casual- like they weren’t knee-deep in their own bravado and bullshit, heads spinning to think their way out of another hunt gone sideways. Messy. Quicksand sinking fast. 

_“C’mon, Stevie.”_ Lighting-quick smile, crooked and imperfect. Adrenaline blowing out the black in those pale blue eyes. _“Just- slow- and think. Answer’s in there somewhere. It’ll come to you- always does.”_

_“_ Always does,” Steve mutters to himself, eyes scanning over the top of the toppled warehouse shelving. The creature would be circling back, coming in for the kill. Dripping blood down his calf and fingernails half torn-off on his left hand, it could probably smell him from a mile out. Gritting his teeth, he forces his eyes open, even though all he wants to do is squeeze them shut and smash his head into the concrete wall until the answer comes to him or it all goes away. Blood drips steadily off of his ankle, sound like a metronome against all the concrete and steel. _Drip. Drip. Drip._

Then it comes to him. With a hiss, Steve yanks the rounds filled with dead man’s blood from his pouch, and loads his gun; loud, sloppy, the slide of metal on metal obvious as he cocks it, loaded. No sooner does he lift his eyes back to the room than the creature is on him, all rage and no finesse. Just teeth and nails and that black inhumanity. 

Steve fires once, _any more is a waste of rounds_ , and the creature slumps over the fallen shelving, limp arms dragging at the toe of Steve’s boots. Seconds later, its dark, unnatural blood leaks down the shelving, pooling at his feet. Allowing himself a grimace, Steve pushes to his feet, shoves the gun under his arm, and steps over the body, scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand. It comes away bloody. Messy.

Even monsters bleed.

*** 

“That was so…”

“Gross.”

Bucky grinned at him, bright and sharp, teeth white against the too-red split in his lip. “It was _amazing_ , Stevie! You’re getting so strong; I can’t believe that swing- you took its head off, all by yourself!” 

Steve felt his stomach turn over, could still hear the sickening thud. “Don’t remind me.” 

Bucky’s grin went soft, and he slung an arm heavy over Steve’s shoulders, tucking him into his side, into step, as they ambled away from the barn. He was too warm and sweaty and covered in grime, but Steve leaned into him, drank him in, like a fish out of water. 

“You did real good, Stevie,” Bucky said quietly, angled too far down, like his brain hadn’t quite processed Steve’s sudden growth spurt. Granted, fifteen year old Bucky was still a bit taller, and a whole lot broader, but Steve was catching up. His body must have developed some resistance after the illness that nearly took him in the winter, because he hadn’t had more than the odd sniffle since. Not to mention he was growing, _actually growing_ and putting on muscle, as if all those potatoes and spare servings of meat Bucky kept shoving onto his plate were finally being put to use. 

“Way to be pat-ro-nis-ing, Buck,” Steve sounded out, pressing tight against Bucky so he’d know that Steve didn’t really mean anything by it.

Snorting, Bucky shoved him away, then reeled him back in, just as stuck on Steve as Steve was on him. “Oh, and he’s smart too! Well hotshot, you just let me know when you can shoot as good as me, and I’ll be on my merry way, just leave you be, superstar.” 

Steve blinked up at him, starry-eyed and helpless. “I’ll never be as good as you. Guess that means you’re stuck with me.” 

“Guess so,” Bucky huffed, nose scrunched as he scrubbed his fingers through Steve’s hair, then quickly smoothed it back into place. Buck liked things neat. He went quiet for a minute, arm tight around Steve as they walked. 

“Buck?” Steve questioned, low, and Bucky’s eyes snapped to his, burning and full of grief. Steve nearly tripped, startled at the intensity in his gaze. It was gone as soon as it had appeared, melting back into that fond look that made the pit of Steve’s stomach go shock-y and warm. Sugar and sunshine.

“C’mon, ace, I’ll race ya,” Bucky pushed away, grinned- a little too wide and a little off, but then Steve was too busy chasing after him to notice, their laughter splashing loud and messy against the trees.

***

The bar was like any other in the flat country; dimly-lit and sticky countertops, corners crowded with shifty-eyed people in worn clothes, drinks poured with a heavy hand. It takes Steve thirty seconds too long to recognise the shock of red hair moving determinedly towards him in his peripherals. He blames the alcohol and the blood loss. 

“Love what you’ve done with your nails.” 

Steve hunches inwards against the low, smoky voice, curling his torn fingernails into the palm of his left hand. “Why are you here.” 

A too-bright voice chirps up from Steve’s other elbow. “Just passin’ through, remembered you were on a case-”

“Shut it, Barton.” Natasha snaps, boring a hole into the side of Steve’s skull with the intensity of her gaze. “Why didn’t you call for backup?” 

“I had it under control,” Steve intones, voice carefully level. There’s an Elvis song on the radio, and it makes something tighten against his ribcage. _There will be peace in the valley for me, I pray._

Natasha snorts unattractively. “Is that why I smell rubbing alcohol on you? How many stitches?” 

“Seven,” Steve grins coldly, raising his drink at her, “but I’m pretty sure the smell is my little friend ‘eighty percent ethanol’ over here.” 

“What we _mean,_ buddy,” Clint tries from his other side, as Natasha’s mouth quirks in a smirk she fails to tamp down, “is that maybe next time you take out a nest, you can let us help you?”

Steve turns to look at him then, frowning. “It wasn’t a nest. And I’m fine on my own.” 

Clint has lines around his eyes that weren’t there the last time Steve saw him, corners of his mouth tight even as he forces a smile, tries to look understanding, for Steve. Maybe if he wasn’t so genuine, earnest, it would hurt less when he says, “I know, pal, but you don’t gotta be on your own anymore.” 

As it is, it knocks the breath from Steve’s chest, his throat closing up as he shoves out of his stool. He topples his glass over onto the sticky wood in his haste, amber liquid sloshing out, syrupy, messy. Natasha swears under her breath but darts a hand out to stop Clint from clutching at his arm; allowing him the dignity of escape. 

The parking lot was like any other at two am; and he blames the alcohol and the blood loss and maybe the tears blurring his vision when the rest of the vampire nest gets the drop on him. 

*** 

When he opens his eyes, he’s home, and Bucky’s alive. Then he blinks, and he’s back in the future, there are stitches pulling at gashes all over his body, and the left side of the bed is cold. Grunting, he pushes himself onto his elbows, pulling his jacket and socks on as quickly as he can; avoiding looking around their old bedroom where nothing and everything has changed. 

Natasha and Clint were in the kitchen, talking in low voices over a pot of dark coffee. The steam curls up between them like a question mark, dissipating against the wooden beams of the log cabin roof. The wood is covered in protective sigils and runes, carved there by Bucky all those years ago when they built the cabin. Steve quickly directs his gaze back down, where Natasha and Clint are yet to notice him slumped in the doorframe.

“Guess you were right about the nest,” he interrupts, sheepish. 

They turn to him as one, two pairs of sharp eyes roving over the skin exposed by his boxer shorts, scoping the extent of his still-healing injuries. The stitches will hold. He knows, because Natasha did them.

“At least you have the decency to look ashamed of yourself,” Natasha says by way of greeting, forgiveness. Something eases in Steve’s shoulders, silently accepting the olive branch. 

“You should really still be resting up, bud,” Clint frowns, moving as if to usher Steve back into the bedroom. Trap him back in there with all that grief. 

Steve pushes forward, dropping himself firmly onto a kitchen stool. “Food first.” 

Clint immediately moves to the pantry, pulls out eggs and bread, slides a glass of orange juice over to Steve. Natasha jumps onto a stool next to him, still watching him, always watching him, like a bomb about to explode. “So. How come you missed the rest of the vamp nest?” 

“Wasn’t looking for vamps,” Steve mutters. Clint and Nat share a brief, worried look that doesn’t go unnoticed. Taking a long swig of his juice, glass raised like a shield, Steve goes for the throat. “Kill enough demons, and they stop coming even when you summon them.”

“Jesus,” Nat hisses, colour draining from her face. Clint abandons the stovetop, turning fully to face them.

“You’re still going after demons? On your own?” 

Steve blinks at him, taken aback by the steel in his voice. It’s easy to forget that Clint is just as dangerous as the rest of them, all that violence brewing under the surface, taped over with his stupid jokes and clumsy earnestness. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve sighs, “No matter how many demons I summoned, none of them knew anything. So I exorcised them all. And eventually, they just stopped coming.”

He leaves out the torture, and the part where every single one of them had laughed, refused to make a deal with him, no matter how much holy water he flung at them.

_He’s already in the pit, hunter. He made the deal. He’s our special one- probably forgotten you already. Been down there burning for a long time, and you can’t help him._

“Steve.”

Steve flinches, shoulders up around his ears, eyes burning, swimming. They are both looking at him with pity, and grief, and he can’t stand it. He pushes off the stool, moves to head back to their- his- room. “I should get back on the road.”

Nat squares her jaw. “Getting yourself killed is not going to bring James back.” 

He clenches his jaw so hard that his teeth creak. Forces his voice to come out steady as he turns to flee. “Well, it’s worth a shot.” 

*** 

He’s still curled up on the unmade bed when Natasha knocks on the door, doesn’t wait for an answer before letting herself in, climbing up to wrap herself around him. 

She doesn’t say anything about the smashed picture frame flung at the wall, doesn’t hesitate to lie down even though there’s boxes of Bucky’s stuff under the bed and it feels like crawling on top of a live grenade. She just holds him, and he hasn’t been held in so long; he can’t stop the silent tears from spilling out, and even when he starts shaking, big, ugly sobs, she doesn’t say anything. Just stays, gripping tight, holding his mess together. 

*** 

The breakdown after the vamp nest seems to release something from inside him. He agrees to stay with Natasha and Clint while his wounds heal, and then he just keeps on staying, until it’s been months since his last hunt. He starts cooking again, helps Clint with the garden, spots for Natasha’s target practice. Once his stitches are out, he starts going for long, wandering walks in the forest. He doesn’t realise he’s following the old trail that Bucky always made him take, but even then, it doesn’t hurt quite so bad. 

The cabin is on the outskirts of a small mountain town, home to more than a few hunters and tough, ragged townsfolk who keep to themselves and look after their own. Steve gets a few double takes the first time he ventures in for supplies, followed by warm, pitying smiles that still make something tighten in his chest. 

Nat had sent him in with the old truck- under instructions to pick up at least three different types of vegetables- the first time he notices the little veterans building. There’s a group of scruffy guys and a few women standing out front, seemingly waiting together but each in their own little orbit, not-quite interacting with anyone else. An African American man with a kind face and neatly pressed pants opens the door, and the veterans all slowly start to file inside, greeting him as they go. As the last person enters, the guy looks up and notices Steve watching from across the road. Something like recognition lights in his eyes, and he gives Steve a smile, then taps one hand meaningfully against a little holder fastened to the wall, before shutting the door behind himself. 

After a few minutes of working up the nerve, Steve darts across the road, head ducked down, fists shoved into the pockets of his canvas jacket. The plastic holder is crammed with pamphlets. Steve snags one before shoving it in his pocket, only unfolding it once he’s back in the relative safety and anonymity of his truck. The pamphlet advertises group meetings- _therapy,_ Steve’s brain supplies- for veterans suffering from PTSD, Tuesday and Thursday nights at 6pm. 

If Natasha is suspicious when Steve announces a sudden errand he needs to run the next Thursday evening, she doesn’t show it. He waits until the door has closed behind the last veteran before sliding out of his truck, loping across the road and sneaking into the back row of the meeting hall. The man with the friendly face, Sam, is speaking at the front, and doesn’t give any indication of noticing Steve hiding in the shadows. Steve allows his shoulders to drop after a few minutes, and listens in while one of the women describes struggling with feelings of wanting revenge.

He never really speaks up, doesn’t interact with any of the others and usually slips away before anyone else, but the meetings help, in a way. He’s not a veteran except for all the ways in which he is, and he doesn’t have that one person who always understood what it felt like anymore, but maybe this is as close he can get. 

*** 

It goes against his rules to stay in one place for too long, but he can’t help it, not when is feels like he can still reach out and touch some parts of Bucky, here. Clint beams at him like he found the cure to cancer when Steve unpacks some of the boxes, restores a few of Bucky’s old paperbacks on the bookshelves in their room. Even Natasha looks at him with something Steve thinks is pride when she catches him curled up on the couch, thumbing through one of Bucky’s never-ending supply of poetry books. 

Steve is even feeling a bit proud of himself, feeling strong and capable for the first time in a long time; doing his best to ignore the voice in his head that reminds him the last time he felt like this was when he stopped getting sick and started getting big, when he was fifteen. Ten years before Bucky was dragged away by those invisible hounds. 

Then on an average Tuesday night in an average week, there’s a new guy at the VA meeting. He’s nearly as big as Steve, and holds himself curled in, self conscious and prickly, like most of the veterans here. But it’s the slant of his shoulders that makes Steve’s breath catch in his throat, his eyes stuck, unblinking. _Bucky._ And then someone brushes past Steve’s side on their way to a seat, and the moment is broken, and it’s just a guy who looks a little too much like his everything. Steve can’t help the way his eyes keep flicking over to the guy throughout the evening, keeping a running tally in his head of all the ways he isn’t Bucky. The hair is wrong, too long and limp, he’s too broad, heavy with muscle, and the way he walks out, face turned down, is all wrong, listing too much to the left. 

Not to mention the hideous striped-pink scarf wrapped high around his neck. It’s chunky, hand-woven, in about four different shades of washed-out fuchsia. It’s the kind of thing you’d only wear because someone made it for you, and you didn’t want to upset them. The guy probably had a young daughter. Steve huffs a laugh to himself, imagining one of Bucky’s sisters giving him something like that as a gift. He wouldn’t be caught dead in that scarf.

The new guy doesn’t show up again, and Steve forgets the whole incident, until he feels someone watching him in the hardware store. He turns, searching, but only glimpses a figure ducking out the door, broad shoulders and dark baseball cap pulled low. 

It happens again and again, dark figures looming in the corner of his eye, but there’s never anyone there, or maybe a glimpse of a black leather boot smudging around the corner when Steve turns. 

He’s getting twitchy, eyes always roaming, hair on the back of his neck prickling, a sense he’s being followed on his walks in the woods. But there’s never anyone or anything there. He can tell it’s putting Natasha and Clint on edge, that he’s worrying them. 

“Getting cabin fever,” he jokes flatly, packing a bag, skimming the papers for signs, promising he’ll check in once he reaches the motel; just going for a few days, just a salt and burn, something easy, mindless, to get him back in the game. They let him slip past, let him take the truck, something smoothing in Nat’s expression when she sees he’s tucked one of Bucky’s books under his arm for the road. 

That night in the hotel, he has to spend an hour with his head between his knees, forcing himself to breathe, when he opens the old paperback and there’s an inscription written on the inside cover in Bucky’s neat block ballpoint letters.

_Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep._

_Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there, I did not die._

*** 

The easy salt and burn is not an easy salt and burn. Flames are still licking at the sides of the grave when he’s thrown against a tree, a choking force wrapped around his throat. He hadn’t accounted for the possibility that the ghost was tethered to something other than its bodily remains, which was a rookie mistake, and he was going to suffocate for it. 

His vision is shadowing around the edges, warping, and he can’t bring himself to panic, just thinks, _this is it_ , and then the shadows at the edge of his vision move, twisting. It almost looks like… there is an inhuman shriek, and a ball of flames, and suddenly Steve can breathe. He claws at his throat, gasping, blinking rapidly as he twists, tries to see who else is there. 

It’s a man, broad shoulders sloping to the left, long hair loose and sticking to his sweating forehead. He’s in all black, from his heavy boots to the black cloth he has wrapped around the bottom half of his face. He looks nothing like Bucky. 

And then he takes a hesitant step closer, and the flames flare from the grave, only for a second, but it’s enough to throw light into his eyes, those wide, pale eyes, and Steve can’t breathe. 

Bucky is standing in front of him, and he is going to suffocate for it. 

Confusion flashes across Bucky’s face, looking at Steve, and he takes a half-step back. Steve panics, draws in a too-sharp lungful of air, gasps against the bruises blooming on his throat. “Buck, wait!” 

Bucky sort of jerks, eyes wild and scared, like a cornered animal. Unthinking, Steve throws himself forward, one hand outstretched. Like a reflex, Bucky flinches back, and in the span between one blink and the next, he’s gone. Melted away, into thin air. 

It takes Steve a long time to pull himself off the ground, away from the soggy, decaying leaves that hold an imprint of Bucky’s boot, _evidence,_ playing it over in his mind, but he knew what he saw. He had been trained to look for it, for that split second mistake, where his target gave it all away. 

Just that split second, when Bucky’s eyes went black.

_***_

Steve drives around the town for six hours straight, looking for any sign of Bucky, until the empty fuel light is glaring bright red at him and he concedes. 

The motel is just a motel, and Steve’s eyes glaze over everything inside it, not really seeing; until the next morning when he drags himself out of the shower and nearly brains himself on the sink, startled half to death by the message drawn out on the steamy mirror. 

_Do not forget what I am._

*** 

Steve tracks signs of demon activity two towns over, and turns himself over to his instincts. He does what he does best. He hunts the demon. He hunts Bucky. 

Unfortunately for Steve, he had managed to repress a few important details about Bucky. Firstly, Bucky was a better hunter than he ever was. Now, Demon Bucky had a few extra tricks up his sleeve. If Bucky didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be found. 

Secondly, and perhaps more importantly; Bucky Barnes is an asshole. 

Steve hasn’t eaten properly in nearly two days, and is about to faint with hunger, when he finally relents and drags himself into a diner, slumping into a booth. He’s vaguely considering just going and putting himself into danger again, on the off-chance that Bucky would appear and save him, when a heavy body drops down into the booth opposite him. 

It’s Bucky, because of course it is. He’s glaring at Steve like he could hear Steve’s plan to throw himself into a pack of werewolves. His hair is pulled back into a little half-bun, so Steve’s really getting the full force of his glare. Steve kind of gapes at him dumbly, some part of his brain taking in the fact that Bucky’s got a loose, _very_ sheer shirt on under his leather jacket; one leg sprawled into the aisle sporting some obscenely tight black jeans, and big black biker boots. 

Something about his outfit kind of makes Steve want to laugh. Bucky always liked looking good- he took good care of his clothes, always shining his boots and stitching up his shirts. They never had much money. Steve always wore the second hand plaid shirts and thick jeans, so any extra cash could go towards buying Bucky some soft leather gloves, or a nice suit in a good quality fabric for when they played at being detectives. Bucky’s eyes used to light up, cheeks pink, when Steve splurged on him like that.

Maybe it’s the sentimentality that causes Steve to blurt out, “Did you steal that shirt?”

Bucky raises both eyebrows, lips working around the lollipop shoved in the corner of his mouth. “You are not good at this.” 

The gravel of his voice is like a slap to the face, bringing Steve back to the present. “Buck,” he gasps, like a sap, leaning forward over the table, forcing his arms to stay pinned against his sides. 

Bucky’s face shutters, and the glare is back in full force. “Why are you following me.” 

Steve’s heart sinks a little, and he slumps back. “Oh. Um- do- do you know who I am?”

Bucky glares harder, visibly offended by the insinuation that he is incompetent at gathering intel. The effect is somewhat lessened by the lollipop still shoved in his mouth, and the fluttering of Steve’s stupid, hopeful heart. 

“Steve. Why are you following me.”

“Do you remember- uh, before?” Steve tries, which is a pretty broad fucking question.

“That’s a pretty broad fucking question.”

Steve wants to grab him and sob into the front of his shirt until there is nothing left in him to cry out. “Well, we were… er- friends, before- before you were, um, turned.” 

Bucky shakes his head slowly, glare softening into something scared, hesitant. “I came from the pit.” 

He says it like he’s looking for confirmation, like it’s all he knows and he doesn’t quite believe it. And Steve just- doesn’t know how to do this. How do you tell your- _Bucky_ \- about watching hellhounds drag him away and being unable to stop it, about all the darkness since then, about all the light before, and now he’s a _demon_ and he _doesn’t remember Steve._

Bucky shifts as Steve hesitates, his eyes going syrupy and black between one blink and the next. Startled, Steve’s knee knocks against Bucky’s under the table, the first time he’s touched him, solid and real, and he can feel his pulse against the back of his eyes.

“Are you uncomfortable.” Bucky intones, blinking slowly, deliberately. Steve shakes his head no automatically, then finds that no, actually, he’s really not. His entire world might be upside down, sitting across from a creature he’s spent years trying to make extinct, but Steve is still Steve and Bucky is still Bucky, and there is no world in which Steve doesn’t want to make everything ok. 

“Hey, Buck, I know it might be… well, look, it’s just me and-” Bucky sucks hard on the lollipop, unimpressed, “what I mean is, why don’t you come back with me, and I can help you?” 

Eyes wide, Bucky shakes his head suddenly, a little frantic. “Not going back.” 

“No, I mean-” Steve tries, but it’s too late, and Bucky has gone, doing that vanishing act that Steve has never seen a demon do. Until Bucky. “Fuck,” he groans, head dropping back against the booth in defeat. He’d have to be more careful next time. And he had to believe there would be a next time. Steve Rogers was not a quitter. 

“Here you go, honey,” a waitress chirps, sliding a huge plate of pancakes covered in syrup in front of him when he tips his chin back down.

“I didn’t order-” he begins, then remembers that stupid lollipop in Bucky’s cherry-red mouth, and pulls the plate closer with a huff of a laugh. Bucky is still Bucky. 

*** 

There’s demon activity brewing a few hours south, so Steve diligently follows, like he always has. Quite literally tried to follow Bucky into the pits of hell. 

He’s inwardly cursing Bucky as he hikes out the last few miles to the cabin where the weird signs were focused, and then is promptly driven down into the dirt by a solid hit to the back of his head. He’s coughing out leaves and dust, trying to roll to his feet but they’re stronger, restraining him until another hit to the head knocks him out. 

When he comes to, he’s tied to a chair in a mockery of an exorcism, and there are three demons staring him down. The blonde one in the middle is the first to notice he’s awake, and stalks forward to dig her fingers into his jaw. 

“Where is he?”

Steve just groans at her, unimpressed and unenthused. 

“We know he’s with you. Why are you sheltering him from us?” The boy asks. Steve sheltering Bucky? This is news to Steve, but he’s not about to let them know.

“Don’t you know what he is?” The blond girl simpers, crouching down so he can see his own reflection in her black eyes, before she slashes a knife across his chest. “Thought you killed things like him.” 

“What do you want with him?” Steve pants, praying they are stupid enough to give him a decent insight before he sends all their asses back to the pit. 

Low and behold; “It took years to mold him,” Blondie snarls. “To think of what they gave him, the power he holds… for him to throw it back in our faces… he _broke_ his _contract_.”

“Sounds like a you problem, sweetheart,” comes a growl near Steve’s back, and the blond girl screams as she’s thrown backward, her hand ripped off Steve’s face. Bucky spits out a string of words in Latin, different to the normal exorcism that Steve uses, and three twisting clouds billow out of the hosts’ mouths, before they are wrenched downwards in a sizzling mass as their souls are sent back to hell. 

_“Jesus.”_

“Nope, just me.” Bucky mumbles, much closer than Steve was expecting, cold fingers deftly untying the ropes around Steve’s arms. He holds very still, not wanting to spook Bucky, waiting until he has stepped away and circled in front of Steve’s chair before moving. Steve massages his wrists, and pulls his shirt collar aside a little so he can scope out the slashes on his chest. Not the worst he’s had. 

When he looks up, Bucky is glowering at him. “Why are you here.” 

“Dinner party gone wrong,” Steve retorts, scanning over Bucky for any clue as to where he’s been, what he’s been doing. Not much to report except for a sudden uptick in tight black clothing. 

“Are you insane.” The glowering has intensified. 

“Yeah,” Steve grins at him, shaking the dirt and grass out of his hair. “Hey, why are they after you?” 

Bucky direct his glare solely towards Steve’s ruffled, messed up hair. “Insane.” And then he’s gone.

“Guess I’ll walk home, then,” Steve sighs to the empty room, annoyed. He doesn’t even sound convincing to himself, not with the way he’s smiling uncontrollably. He’s got a lead, and Bucky has been watching him.

*** 

Natasha calls while he’s at the local library, shoving around dusty old hardcovers. “I’m actually doing really good, Nat. Hey, what do you know about Pagan sacrifices?” 

“Have you been sleeping? At all? You sound really- weird.” _The word you’re looking for is ‘manic’._

“Just happy to be back on the road,” Steve chirps, carting another armload of books back over to his table. He only falters for a second when he sees Bucky sitting at the table in a baby pink hoodie with a cartoon lamb on it, glaring in his direction. “Oh sorry, Nat, there’s a little old lady who needs my help reaching the top shelf.”

“We are not finished talking about-”

“Love you, bye!” Steve trills, hanging up as he dumps his stack of books in front of Bucky. “Morning, Buck!”

Bucky glares, and the sun rises in the east. “Not an old lady.”

“Not little, either,” Steve says under his breath, flipping open a book and running his finger down the table of contents. Bucky isn’t happy with the dismissal, pushing his hood off his head and leaning fractionally closer to Steve. Curly wisps of hair have escaped from his bun, and Steve has to press the heel of one boot into the opposite toe to keep himself from reaching out.

“What are you doing.”

“Research,” Steve hums, carefully preoccupied. Calculating. 

“About what.”

“It’s a surprise.”

Bucky huffs, yanks a bag of sour gummy worms from the pocket of his hoodie and rips it open loudly. Little rainbow worms spill out everywhere, and Steve has to bite his lip to keep from laughing when Bucky grumbles and immediately begins sweeping up the mess. Likes things neat. 

“You’ll rot your teeth with all that sugar, B,” Steve says lightly. Bucky snarls. There’s black writing on his hoodie, all in block letters arching above the cartoon lamb, stating ‘I’VE GOT ISSUES.’ Steve wonders if Bucky understands the irony. 

Steve continues his research, silently humming to himself and scribbling down a note when he finds something useful. Bucky gets bored of staring Steve down and passive-aggressively eating sour worms, so he scoots his chair back with a screech and starts wandering around the shelves. 

He makes Steve jump when he starts reading aloud, having drifted up silently behind him. “ _There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I’m too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I’m not going to let anybody see you_.” 

Something cold turns over in Steve’s stomach.

“ _There a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody’s asleep. I say, I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad_.” 

Steve drops the pretence of work, turns fully to face Bucky and finds him standing much closer than he expects, brow furrowed in confusion, concentration. Like he’s trying to remember. 

“Buck?” Steve breathes around the lump in his throat, and Bucky’s eyes flick to his, black.

“Stevie?” 

Steve breathes out in a rush, and clamours to his feet, freezing when Bucky takes a panicked step backwards. He holds out his hands, pleading, “Wait, wait, don’t-” But Bucky is gone, the book of poems with him.

Stumbling back over to his table after a bottom-heavy minute, Steve tries to get a few more hours of research done, but has to call it when all he can see are the same words, over and over. 

_I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad._

*** 

Steve forces himself to go for a morning run to clear his head, and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise he has company. He’s supposed to be a professional. Who nearly trips over his own feet twisting around to get a good look at Bucky, because _what?_

Bucky is wearing what can only be described as _short-shorts_ , bright green and kind of way too much for this hour of morning, plus a very tight black t-shirt and that black bandana wrapped around as a headband. He’s got an iPod Nano tucked into the waistband of his shorts, the similarly-offensive bright green cord to his earbuds swinging against his chest as he runs behind Steve. He gives Steve an overly-dramatic _‘what?!’_ kind of expression, and refuses to run alongside Steve when he tries to slow down. 

An aggravating couple of blocks later, Steve detours towards the grocery store, suddenly desperate for some orange juice. He doesn’t really expect Bucky to follow him in, and is pleasantly surprised when Bucky sidles up behind him in the juice aisle, close enough that Steve can feel the body heat radiating off him.

“Do you like my socks.” They are long and black, and have little bright green marijuana leaves all over. Steve kind of squints at Bucky and hums noncommittally. 

They move into the cereal section. Bucky snags a box of some disgusting sugar and food colouring monstrosity, dropping it into Steve’s basket with raised eyebrows, daring him to say something. Steve just grabs his oats and moseys on. 

Disgruntled, Bucky throws himself between Steve and the peanut butter, sending the jars rattling on the shelf. “Why are we still in this town.” 

Steve tries very hard to keep his voice calm and even in reaction to Bucky’s use of ‘we’, and his physical proximity. “Well, Buck, this library is very good for my research. And we might need to stick around in case any more demons show up, like your friends from the other night.” 

Bucky growls, low in his throat, eyes flashing black. “No way, hotshot. If they come back, I will take care of it.” 

“What, so you’re allowed to look out for me but I’m not allowed to help you?” Steve snaps, jaw clenching. Bucky draws his shoulders back, nods primly. “Fuck you, Buck, I’m never gonna stop trying to help you. Why d’you even stick around if you won’t let me help?”

Bucky deflates a little, shrinking inwards. “It’s easier to remember. The before. When you’re here.” 

The old grief wells up in Steve, and he takes in the bruises smudged purple under Bucky’s eyes, the way he still lists unnaturally to the left, like it hurts to stand upright. This is his- _his Bucky_ \- and he’s hurting. This little game they’re playing, whatever it is, it’s not helping. Those demons are out to get Bucky, and he doesn’t have anyone except for Steve, and he still doesn’t even remember why.

“Do you want me to go.” Bucky asks-states, gaze stuck to the floor. The song on the radio makes Steve’s eyes hot, watery. _I’ve had nothing to live for, looks like nothing’s gonna come my way._

“No, Buck,” he whispers, takes everything in him not to reach out. “I’ve never wanted you to leave, not ever, and I never will.” 

Bucky’s shoulders are up around his ears. He’s processing, or maybe remembering something, from before. _Sitting here resting my bones, and this loneliness won’t leave me alone._

Steve decides to lay out his whole hand on the table. Always all or nothing when it came to Bucky. “I want you to stay with me, and I want to help you. We can protect you. And I’m never gonna stop wanting that; cause, well… I love you, Buck.”

It hangs out heavy in the open, like a thick fog. They are both of them stuck, unmoving, rocks against the current. Steve isn’t sure either of them are breathing- unnatural- as people drift unknowingly past. Nobody sees them; two ghosts, and the mess Steve has made, splattering his heart all over the floor. _Messy, messy, messy._

Something twitches in Bucky’s jaw, eyes blue and flickering everywhere but where Steve stands. “Gimme a minute, ace. Gotta think.” 

_Two thousand miles I roamed, just to make this dock my home. Now I’m just sittin’ on the dock of the bay, wastin’ time._

Bucky blinks out, leaving Steve to hold back the current on his own. The song on the radio changes, and the earth turns. 

*** 

Steve goes east. Bucky follows, a moon caught in the gravitational pull. Or maybe it’s Steve who’s caught, or maybe they’re caught on eachother. 

He wasn’t looking for a hunt, but the hunt finds him. It’s a ghost, just not the one he wants. Thinks he’d let either of them have him, at this point. Just take him away. He’s running on empty; not much fight left.

“Dammit, punk,” Bucky growls, crouching protectively over Steve as if to shield him from the angry spirit. “You’re better than this.”

Steve just blinks up at him helplessly. Bucky hasn’t been this close to him since… he can’t even remember when. There’s a familiar constellation of freckles across his cheekbones, faded against his pale skin. Bucky’s mother would have pushed them outdoors, told them to get some sun. Too many days spent indoors, sleeping off long, bloody nights.

There’s a grunt as Bucky deflects a glass jug the ghost sends hurtling in their direction. “Enough.” He mutters something in a language Steve doesn’t recognise, and there’s a blast of frigid air as the spirit sort of crumples inwards, like nothing Steve’s ever seen. 

In the silent stillness that follows- Bucky’s panting the only evidence of his exertion- Steve tries to come back to himself, pull himself off the ground, but he’s just so tired. Bucky’s talking to him, frustrated, but he can’t understand the words. Then Bucky’s cradling his head as he tries to manoeuvre him into a better position, one that doesn’t put as much weight on his left shoulder, because that’s his bad shoulder; the one he fucked up when he fell wrong from a moving car at age seventeen, and Bucky had half-carried him the whole way home, bandaged him up, knew it still ached sometimes. 

Steve doesn’t realise there’s tears dripping down his face until he feels cold fingers wiping at his cheeks, artist’s fingers, careful and clever and good at fixing up broken things.

“Stevie,” Bucky’s saying, pale wide eyes, and he’s fourteen again, “C’mon, what’s wrong? Where does it hurt? You gotta talk to me, Stevie.” 

Steve sobs, because Bucky remembers his bad shoulder, and he’s touching his face, and calling him _Stevie_ , and Steve just wants to go home. 

“You _remember._ ” 

It comes out accusatory, and Bucky flinches back, but doesn’t drop Steve’s head to the cement. “No, I don’t.”

They’re in a city warehouse. Blue and purple neon lights flash in through the window, tinting Bucky’s skin melancholy; glossy reflections when his eyes blink black. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Steve breathes out, mouth soft like putty. “You’re not good at it. Take the mask off when you speak to me.” 

Confused, Bucky touches fingers to his own lips, as if he’s half expecting to find a muzzle there, a black bandana. His whole body goes rigid, frozen, as Steve reaches out, slow, syrupy, brushes fingertips at the place where Bucky’s lip swells out, split and cherry red.

Steve’s fingers come away sticky when Bucky pulls back, shuddering. “I don’t know what to do, anymore, Buck. You’re lying, and I don’t know how to help you.” 

“You can’t help me, ace,” Bucky mumbles, ducking his head to hide those black eyes behind a curtain of hair. “You should run. Save yourself.”

He leaves Steve lying on the concrete, fingers curling in, smearing Bucky’s blood against his palm, messy. 

Even monsters bleed. 

*** 

_I close my eyes and imagine the dark I would cross to reach you, and this is what it is like in words._

Bucky’s handwriting in his books. Steve escapes to a bar. 

The man on the stool next to him is wearing high waisted brown corduroy slacks, boots with a heel, and an unbuttoned white henley under a denim jacket. Steve’s pretty sure he’s got a yellow dandelion tucked behind one ear. He’s sipping on a very pink drink, the kind that has grains of sugar dusted around the rim, and he’s humming along obnoxiously to a song coming from the hideous green earbud he has shoved in, the other tucked into the neck of his shirt. Steve kind of hates him. 

“ _Look what they’ve done to my brain, Ma, look what they’ve done to my brain. Well they picked it like a chicken bone, and I think I’m half insane, Ma, look what they’ve done to my brain._ ” He slurps rudely at his drink, shooting a sidelong glance at Steve, who resolutely ignores him in favour of hitting decline as his phone lights up again with yet another worried call from Clint-or-Nat. 

“ _Well if the people are buying tears, I’ll be rich someday, Ma._ ” 

Steve growls at him, turning suddenly with his whole body, opening himself up for Bucky. Take me or leave me. “Is all of this a game to you?”

“ _It’s the only thing I could do all right, and they turned it upside down, oh, Ma. Look what they’ve done._ ” 

“Fuck you,” Steve huffs out, with no heat, no fire left; slides out from the bar, shoulders hunched as he battles his way out into the cold city, collapses into the brick wall of an alleyway. 

Bucky drifts in front of him, out of arms’ reach, eyes wary; like he knows he’s pushed too far, that Steve’s hovering on the brink of _something_. If he’d been around at all for the past few years, he’d know that this has been pretty much the status quo since Bucky let himself get dragged into hell. 

“Do you remember me?” Steve asks, broken record. Bucky glares. “Do you remember us?” 

Bucky’s glare intensifies, and then he's moving, pushing into Steve’s space too quick for him to react, and then Bucky Barnes is kissing the bejeezus out of him. 

Steve can’t even move, cannot physically process what is happening, and then Bucky’s _tongue_ is in his _mouth_ , and it’s like Bucky’s taken a live wire and shoved it into the back of Steve’s brain. He scrabbles against the brick wall, pushing back against Bucky, grabbing desperate, starving, at Bucky’s shoulders. He tastes like sugar and sunshine. _God,_ he’s missed Bucky. Missed his mouth. 

It’s the helpless stupid whine in the back of Steve’s throat that makes Bucky pull away, gently setting Steve back against the brick wall. He gives Steve a once over with black eyes, predatory, sending a shiver sparking down Steve’s spine. Then he nods, satisfied with his handy work, turns primly on one heeled boot, and leaves; swaggering out of the alleyway like a normal asshole, instead of his usual disappearing trick.

_How To Run From the Mess You Made_ , a self-help book by James Buchanan Barnes.

By the time Steve’s muscles turn back from a liquid into a solid, stumbling, chasing the heat in the air left in Bucky’s wake, he’s long gone, and Steve’s brain has churned up from love-sick mush into furious mush. 

Bucky Barnes is an asshole. How dare he… _kiss_ Steve like that. Use him to rebuild his own memories, lie to him, and then just pull Steve’s heart out, leave it all messy and bleeding out in his lap. Steve’s eye catches on a neon light across the road, and his anger is already propelling him across the street and into the club before his brain catches up. Give him a taste of his own medicine, see how he likes that. Omnipresent jerk.

He storms towards the bar like he’s about to take the whole building down, inhales two shots that burn at his throat, and shoves his way onto the dance floor, determinedly not looking for a familiar face in the crowd. 

There are quite a few attractive men in the club, and it’s been a long time since Steve’s done anything like this, but it’s surprisingly easy to just let his head loll back, close his eyes and pretend that one of the hard bodies pressing up against him is Bucky. 

One guy even gets as far as putting his hands on Steve’s hips, before there’s a slight commotion behind Steve, and he’s being dragged towards the bathrooms by an iron grip. 

“Let- ugh, let me go!” Steve twists away from Bucky, only to be shoved back against the sinks, ceramic digging painfully into his lower back. “ _Ow_ , asshole!” 

“You let them touch you,” Bucky growls, accusatory, eyes ice-blue.

“At least they don’t run away from me,” Steve snaps back, whip-crack.

“They can’t touch you,” Bucky protests, and Steve has misread the expression on his face. He’s not jealous. He’s hurting.

“Hey, er- are you alright, man?” Someone speaks up, and shit, there are people staring at them, at the way Bucky is caging Steve against the sinks, strong-arming and predatory, even though Steve is bigger and taller than everyone here, humans and demons alike.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve nods, nudging at Bucky, getting a good grip on him and tugging him out of the bathrooms, out the back door, past the smokers in the alley. It’s a dark alleyway kind of night. 

Bucky goes easily, listing to the left when Steve drops his arm, depositing him firmly in theshadows. He’s still got that wounded look on his face, and Steve just drags a hand through his hair. They are fucking each other up. Tiny bits of shrapnel in the bloodstream.

“Ok,” he sighs, “Bucky. You’ve gotta tell me what you want from me. ‘Cause I just don’t think we can survive much more of this. What do you want?”

Panic-black eyes. “I don’t know.” 

“You’ve gotta do better than that, pal, c’mon,” Steve pleads. “I can help keep you safe… help you remember. Or- not. And I’ll stop pushing you; we can just be… _friends_ , if that’s what you need-”

“I don’t _know!_ ” Bucky shouts, terrified, and Steve honestly doesn’t see it coming when Bucky punches him square in the jaw. Steve blinks the spots out of his vision, stunned speechless. A rare occasion, Natasha would joke. 

“Oh god, Stevie,” Bucky is whispering, eyes round like saucers, fingers digging into his own arms in a way that looked like it should hurt. “Oh god, oh god, oh god-”

Steve’s brain comes back online for Bucky Damage Control, because that’s how he’s hardwired. “Hey, Buck, don’t even worry about it,” he soothes, fingers splayed like he’s trying to talk to a scared animal. “I’ve been hit way worse than that, pretty sure _you’ve_ hit me harder than that- I mean… this is barely even a scratch.”

Bucky’s shaky, flinching, and Steve knows that he’s about to tap out, it’s only a matter of time, but he tries to hold him, regardless; tries to tether him to the earth, to Steve. “Just take a deep breath for me, ok, Buck? Baby? Just breathe, and just, stay with me-”

The spell holds for maybe a few seconds, and then Bucky blinks at him with those big blue eyes, and cuts the rope Steve’s lassoed around him, and is gone. Graffitied on the wall in the space where Bucky had been is red writing, big words dripping and running into each other like blood. Messy. 

THEY SAY THERE’S NO FUTURE FOR US. THEY’RE RIGHT. WHICH IS FINE WITH US. 

*** 

Steve is pretty sure he should have gone back to Clint and Natasha’s about two weeks ago, tail between his legs, and restarted the whole recovery saga over again. He is only prolonging the inevitable at this point. But he just doesn’t think he can handle being told again that he’s been talking to a ghost. 

It’s safe to say that when he stumbles back into his motel parking lot a miserable few hours later, he is not expecting the shadow waiting by his door. Steve really doesn’t think he can go for round three, not tonight; and then he notices that Bucky’s dripping wet, and then he smells the blood. 

“What the-” Steve begins, striding forward, halting abruptly when Bucky shrinks back, holding his arm tightly across his middle. 

“Please, just-” Bucky whispers, looking out nervously at the empty parking lot. 

“Yeah, ok.” Steve unlocks the door, brushes aside the salt line, ushers Bucky inside. Bucky’s standing there helplessly, eyes tracking Steve’s movement as he scrapes the salt line back, checks the locks twice, draws the curtains closed. They both flinch when Steve turns on the light. There’s a lot of blood. Steve thinks that most of it is Bucky’s.

“How are you still walking?” he hisses, pointing Bucky towards the bathroom while he fishes the first aid kit from his canvas duffle bag. Bucky sort of hovers in the doorway, but goes pliantly when Steve pushes him gingerly down to sit on the closed toilet seat.

“Takes more than that to stop a demon,” Bucky mumbles, allowing Steve to peel his shirt off carefully. His left arm and shoulder are mottled with scarring, but nothing is bleeding, except a huge open slice gaping across Bucky’s stomach like a gruesome smile. Bile rises in Steve’s throat- he can see _inside_ \- he forces it back down. Bucky should be dead. Bucky is dead. If he was human, he would be dead. As it is, his accelerated healing is probably the only thing keeping him breathing. That and maybe the shock. Steve goes on autopilot.

“This is going to hurt,” he warns, digging out supplies for stitches, and rubbing alcohol to clean the wound. Bucky just nods, docile, and Steve is having a really hard time reconciling him with the man who was shoving him around in an alley earlier tonight. 

He hisses with Bucky when he splashes the alcohol over the cut, sympathetic, “I know, I know;” grits his teeth, sterilises his equipment as quickly as he can, and pinches the skin together with one hand, slippery with blood and alcohol. He doesn’t hesitate before sliding the needle through, pulling together but not too tight, tying off a neat stitch, rinse, repeat.

“Who did this to you?” Steve asks, although he already suspects; tries to distract Bucky.

“Demons,” Bucky whimpers, then on an exhale, “They’re afraid of me.” Steve glances up quickly; his eyes are closed, purple lids, lips chapped and pale. Too much blood loss. 

“You’re safe here,” Steve reassures, trying to pick up the pace with his stitches. “Just hold on a little longer, baby, I’ve got you.”

Bucky lets out a strange, wounded groan, and slumps backwards a little, head thunking harshly against the wall. Steve swears under his breath, keeps babbling encouragement as he shifts in closer on his knees, trying to brace Bucky upright while he works. 

“I don’t want to hurt anymore,” Bucky whispers. “Stevie, don’t make me go back. I don’t want to kill anyone, they’re gonna make me-” His breath is coming too quick, and Steve can’t keep him steady enough to finish off the stitches. 

“Bucky, baby, nobody’s gonna make you do anything, they’re not going to get you, you’re not going back.” He gets his forearms on Bucky’s shoulders, careful to keep his hands clean, and presses down until Bucky’s eyes snap up to his, glossy black. “Hey, there you are, just stay with me, ok? Nice deep breaths, breathe in with me- there you go, that’s real good, Buck. I just need you to hold real still for me, baby, just keep breathing nice and slow for me; I’m nearly done, sweetheart.” 

Bucky relaxes, goes almost boneless, big round eyes stuck on Steve’s face, blinking slowly at him as he works; pulling together all that warm, smooth skin, fingers firm and careful. He’s panting, gasping a little bit by the time Steve ties off the final stitch, and it’s not until Steve looks up at him that it hits home; he’s had Bucky drop before, but was not at all prepared for it to happen tonight. Bucky’s eyes are so black it makes something warm spread in the pit of his stomach- mouth flowering open, lips bitten pink and spit-slick. Steve’s braced in the vee of Bucky’s legs, pressed snug against hard muscle, and it’s occurring to him that Bucky has been in hell for what translates as nearly seventy years, and he maybe hasn’t been touched with kindness in a very long time. 

Steve pulls back slowly, avoiding looking anywhere near Bucky’s lap for his own sanity, because he’s hardwired to give Bucky whatever Bucky wants, do whatever it takes to make him feel better, but even his lizard brain knows when something is not right. 

“Don’t leave me,” Bucky gasps, grabbing at Steve’s wrist. “I promise I’ll be good, I won’t hurt you, just don’t leave me-”

“Shh, baby, you’ve been so good for me, I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” tries to smile reassuringly, “I’m not going to leave you. Just- we gotta get you cleaned up a bit, Buck. Do you think a shower would be ok?”

Bucky settles, fingers going slack around Steve’s wrist. He blinks slowly up at him; doesn’t protest when Steve turns to get some warm water running, wiping his hand on his jeans when he’s satisfied that it’s not going to scald Bucky. 

“Ok, Buck, that’s nice and warm for you.” Bucky hasn’t moved, looks dazed, and right, he’s in shock, and he’s dropped. Steve remembers that he needs to be as clear and direct as possible. “I want you to get undressed, wash off all that blood and dirt- careful of those stitches- and then you can use this towel here to dry off, ok?”

Bucky’s eyes are asking Steve to stay. Steve is a coward. “I’m gonna go grab you some clean clothes, I’ll be right outside ok? Just call out if you need me.” 

Steve stares at the closed door for approximately thirty seconds before forcing himself to go to his bag, dig out clean clothes, and then collapses on his bed with shaky legs. He is in way, _way_ over his head. He picks up his phone.

“About fucking time-”

“Natasha,” he pleads, and something in his voice stops her cold.

“Where are you?” 

Eyes drooping in relief, he scrabbles to find the welcome brochure, and rattles off the name of the motel. 

“We’ll be there in six hours.” It’s a nine hour drive. 

“Nat-”

Her voice is steel. “Six hours. Stay where you are.” 

*** 

Steve allows himself exactly two more minutes of panic, and then forces himself to get up, check the protective wardings around the room, and try to think through the problem until the water shuts off. After a few moments of shuffling around, Bucky creeps out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, hair dripping wet down his neck, eyes shifting and uncertain. 

Steve pastes on what he hopes is a reassuring smile but probably comes out a little crazed, and gathers up a pair of soft grey sweatpants and a well-worn thermal long-sleeve shirt. He briefly scans over his stitches, satisfied that they’ve held, before handing Bucky the clothes. Bucky hesitates when he sees the shirt, and for a brief second Steve is embarrassed, thinking Bucky’s recognised it as one of his own, but Bucky just blinks, and then carefully tugs it on. Steve’s kind of mesmerised by the way his muscles shift as he stretches up, _so much broader than before_ , and so he doesn’t quite avert his gaze fast enough when Bucky drops the towel, pulling on the sweatpants. 

“Socks, you need socks,” Steve babbles, busying himself with digging through his bag until he’s sure all of _that_ is covered up. Bucky watches him as he walks back over; trading Bucky a clean pair of socks for his damp towel. Hanging it in the bathroom, he steps out to find to his horror that Bucky has shuffled over to the tiny armchair, as if preparing himself to spend the night there. 

“Hold up, pal,” Steve huffs, catching Bucky by the elbow and steering him to sit on the bed. “You sleep here tonight. Oh. Do demons sleep?” 

Bucky blinks up at him, big moo-cow eyes.

“Right. Well, you just lie down right here, make yourself nice and comfy, and uh, I’m just going to wash up and I’ll be right back.” 

Steve grabs his own change of clothes, has the quickest shower of his life, and rushes back out to find Bucky in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin, silently shaking, gone sheet-white and blinking too rapidly. Big black eyes track Steve as he carefully crouches next to the bed, telegraphing his movements the way he’s seen Clint do with stray dogs, as he wraps a hand around Bucky’s wrist, trying to get a read on his pulse. Bucky shifts into the touch, so Steve reaches out his other hand, gently brushes Bucky’s damp hair out of his face. 

Bucky’s jaw drops open, mouth forming an ‘o’, pink tongue just pushing at his bottom lip, and Steve’s brain gets stuck on _pretty_ before he realises that Bucky is _offering_ himself, expression shut down and far away. Steve pulls away like he’s been burned, thinks he’s going to be sick. 

Bucky’s eyes slide over him, pinch in his eyebrows, voice slurred. “I can be good.” 

Steve is going to throw up. “Bucky- _no_ … _Buck_ , I swear, I would never do that, I would never _make you…_ You never have to do that again, Buck, never have to do _anything_ that you don’t want to.”

Bucky’s coming back to himself, and he’s upset, looks ashamed. Steve wants to punch himself in the face, because everything he does just seems to be making it worse and worse. 

“ _Shit,_ baby- I’m sorry, I’m not mad at you, could never be mad at you,” Steve murmurs, wringing his hands a little in his lap. Bucky stops trying to hide his face, blinks up at Steve; eyes shiny and wet. “There you are, sweet boy. You’re ok, you’re safe here; just- what can I do? How can I make it better?” 

Bucky hesitates, presses his lips together until they go white. Whispers to the ceiling, “Will you hold me,” and blinks at Steve in something like shock when he carefully climbs up onto the bed, above the covers; slowly wraps one arm around Bucky’s middle, careful to avoid the stitches. 

It feels like they both hold their breath, waiting for the bomb to implode; then Steve gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind Bucky’s ear, and Bucky melts, rolls into Steve, tucks his face into Steve’s chest, the covers pulled tight between them. Steve squeezes his eyes shut, running his fingers gently through Bucky’s hair, stroking at his scalp and down his back. When the shakes come, his breath hitching uncontrollably, Steve presses his face into the top of Bucky’s head, whispers sweet nothings to him, holds him together. Holds _them_ together- for as long as it takes- and does not let himself cry.

_Mercy, I think, doesn’t the human race know anything about mercy?_

***

Based on Bucky’s track record as of late, Steve fully expects him to be gone when he wakes. But he’s there, those round obsidian eyes shockingly close, staring at Steve, and he jumps a little, wincing as Bucky shrinks back. Steve hums apologetically, opening his arms, and Bucky wastes no time wriggling up against him. Still in that fuzzy place, then. He gets an armful of a whole lot of warm, smooth skin, and realises that Bucky somehow managed to wrangle him under the covers at some point in the night, and is now pressed up as close to Steve as he can get, squirming around like he thinks he’s half as big as he is. 

Steve makes a little shushing sound, and carefully runs his hands over Bucky’ side and his back, trying to gauge whether he was healing up ok, double check that he didn’t miss any scrapes last night. Bucky makes a soft noise, and turns his face into the crook of Steve’s neck. Steve’s fingers trace over the scars on Bucky’s left shoulder and down his arm, feeling the way they pull unnaturally at his skin.

He thinks he’s hurt Bucky when he lets out a guttural sound, and goes to pull away, then Bucky pants out, “Please, don’t stop- nobody’s ever- _touched_ there,” and Steve’s brain whites out. 

In a daze, he keeps tracing over the scars, as Bucky writhes against him, mouth open against Steve’s neck, hot and wet. He gets one of Steve’s thighs between his, whimpering, and Steve’s self control is hanging on by a thread. 

“Baby- baby,” Steve breathes out, dumbstruck and helpless not to give Bucky what he wants. “My good boy…”

_If we can just stay here like this,_ Steve thinks as he traces his fingertips over Bucky’s back, very carefully not rocking his hips into the friction and heat, _then maybe he’ll be safe, they can keep eachother safe…_

Bucky’s gasps have turned into strange, dry sobs, and Steve is ready to pull back entirely, but Bucky’s eyes are flicking around the room, and he’s not here, gone rigid and clinging tightly to Steve. He’s way too hot; Steve’s heart is in his throat as he feels at Bucky’s clammy forehead, and starts to think that maybe Bucky hasn’t just dropped. He’s running a fever.

“Buck?” Steve asks, failing to keep the worry out of his voice. “You with me?”

“Stevie,” Bucky mumbles, mouthing gently at Steve’s neck, which is the precise moment that Steve hears the familiar engine of Clint’s truck pull up in the parking lot.

“Fuck,” he hisses, detangling himself from Bucky as quickly and inoffensively as possible, “shit, ok, Bucky, I need you to listen carefully, baby; I need you to just stay here, and don’t open that door for anyone except for me, ok?” 

Bucky makes an unhappy whimper-growl noise, but does what he’s told, and stays sweating, in the sheets, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. Steve slips out the front door and closes it with his back to the room, just in time to stop Natasha and Clint dead in their tracks at the bottom of the step.

Natasha raises an eyebrow in the general vicinity of his boxer shorts, Clint’s mouth twists unhappily at his bare feet, and they both frown at the panic so clearly splashed across his face.

“I need you both to promise you’ll stay calm.”

Natasha’s glare could rival Bucky’s. “What’s going on, Steve?”

He holds one hand out, adopting his best ‘I Am Trustworthy’ face. “Just promise you’ll listen before you do anything-”

He registers the shock on their faces before the sound of the door opening, and he whips around to see Bucky slumped in the doorway, eyes standing out stark and black against his pale skin, for all the world to see. _Fucking-_ Steve’s brain clicks into gear just in time to throw himself in front of Bucky- human shield- as Clint and Natasha go for weapons. 

“Stop, stop, stop!” He screams, and everyone freezes, Medusa-stone; Bucky gasping hurt-scared at his back. “Stop- it’s _Bucky._ ”

Natasha recovers first. “Steve, that’s not James. That is a demon wearing James’ skin.” He’s never heard her voice shake like that before.

Steve’s thought about this. A lot. Researched it for days on end, still couldn’t find an answer, but he knows; “ _It’s Bucky_.” 

“Ok, buddy,” Clint says carefully, making a show of putting his gun away, edging open-handed in front of Natasha. “Why don’t we take this inside, huh?” 

Natasha shakes herself, re-holsters her knife, and follows Clint up the stairs, determined. If Steve wasn’t so relieved, getting an arm around Bucky and half-carrying him back towards the bed, he’d be a little insulted on Bucky’s behalf that his friends are clearly confident in their ability to take down the demon if necessary. He might not know a whole lot about what happened to Bucky in the pit, but he knows for sure that he has never seen a demon with powers like his before. And Steve’s seen a lot of demons.

“Start talking, Rogers,” Natasha demands the second the door’s shut, arms crossed in a way that manages to make even Steve feel small. 

Bucky refuses to detach from Steve’s side, so he slumps next to him on the edge of the bed. “Long story short, he showed up a while ago; he didn’t really remember me very well… and um, we’ve kinda been following eachother around ever since.”

“Following eachother.” Natasha is not impressed.

“He says being around me makes it easier to remember,” Steve mumbles, catching at Bucky’s fingers where they’re playing with the waist of his boxer shorts. “You know what happens to people in- in the pit. He didn’t remember me. Us.”

Clint is having a hard time hiding the pity in his eyes. “And now?”

Bucky’s got his face half-hidden in Steve’s shoulder, breathing wetly against the cool skin.He’s burning up, like an infection has taken hold. 

“There’s other demons that after him. He’s- he’s really powerful. I think he broke his contract. Ran away.”

He thinks Natasha might be taking in some of what he’s been saying. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know.” Steve feels something prickling at the back of his eyes. “He came in bleeding half to death last night. I stitched him up pretty good, and I think he might have gone into shock, or- something. But he’s been like this since I woke up. What if they poisoned him or something? Can demons get infections?”

Natasha runs a hand through her hair. “Don’t ask me, ask him.” She takes a step forward, accidentally kicking over Steve’s sad pile of takeaway containers and beer bottles. “James?”

Bucky looks around the room as if seeing it for the first time, and grumps unhappily at Steve. _“Messy.”_

Natasha looks like she’s been slapped in the face. Steve gets it. The tears spill over. 

“Holy shit,” Clint breathes, awe lighting up his eyes. “It _is_ Barnes.” 

“Tiny man,” Bucky hums happily, glazed eyes settling on Clint. 

Clint barks out a laugh. “Go to hell.” 

“Tried that. Didn’t take,” Bucky giggles. Steve and Natasha sort of gape wetly at him. 

“He has a fever,” Steve says weakly, which is when Bucky starts trying to climb into his lap.

“We need to get him to the safe house,” Clint decides, jumping to action in the face of Steve’s bright red embarrassment and Natasha’s abrupt shock. “Who’s up for a road trip? I’ll drive.” 

*** 

Getting Bucky bundled into the truck is easy, in the end. Once he realises that he has Steve held hostage in the backseat for cuddles, he goes quietly; all sweet and pink with fever. Steve lets him lie across the bench seat with his head on Steve’s thigh, deft artist’s fingers fiddling with the stitching on the outer seam of Steve’s jeans. 

As is often the case around Bucky, Steve is lulled into a false sense of security. He thinks he even drifts off for a few hours, one hand curled around Bucky’s shoulder. And then the squirming starts. 

“Touch me,” Bucky whines, noodling around and pushing his head into Steve’s stomach like he’s a cat demanding to be petted. 

“Buck-” Steve protests, face flushed beet-red as his eyes flick up to meet Natasha’s in the rearview mirror, hoping she didn’t hear. She looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Steve should never have called them for help.

“Steven,” Bucky growls, eyes gone liquid black. “Touch. My hair.” 

“ _Wow,_ ” Clint says around a laugh, trying to twist around and get a good look.

“Eyes on the road, pal,” Steve barks, shoving his fingers maybe a little too roughly into Bucky’s tangled bird’s nest of hair, and promptly getting stuck. Bucky purrs, digging his nails not at all gently into Steve’s thigh. 

“ _Ouch_ , Buck… Bucky! Stop that! No teeth!” 

“ _Nyet_.”

“James, darling,” Natasha says loudly, an obvious diversion, “how come you’re wearing your own body, huh?”

Steve makes a face at her phrasing, but Bucky doesn’t seem to notice as Steve carefully extracts his leg from Bucky’s death grip.

“Stole it.” 

Natasha turns in her seat. “What do you mean, you stole it? Er- sweetie?” 

Bucky wrangles one of Steve’s hands free, presses it reverently against his own cheek. He’d be cute if he wasn’t clammy and delirious. 

“I took it from the demons, Nataliana. If a demon soul is reunited with the original body, it can be very powerful. They thought I would be their most powerful soldier. Didn’t think I would run.” 

His voice has gone flat, knuckles white where he’s clutching at Steve’s hand. He doesn’t have to look to know that Bucky’s eyes are black. Natasha looks like she wishes she’d never asked, and promptly turns to face the road. 

Steve bites at the inside of his cheek, and strokes at Bucky’s hair, even after the shaking stops. 

*** 

He must doze off again, because next thing he knows, Clint is pulling into a gas station, Natasha following him out of the truck with a warning for Steve and Bucky to stay put.

Steve startles as something is shoved in his ear, and looks down to see Bucky holding his little iPod, the other disgustingly green earbud in one ear. The song is so quiet that Steve has to strain a little to hear it; all guitar strumming and some sort of wailing instrument that he can’t identify. Then there’s this low, smoky voice that suddenly reminds him of Bucky singing out on the porch, those nights when he thought he was alone.

_I looked my demons in the eyes, laid bare my chest and said ‘do your best to destroy me’. See I’ve been to hell and back so many times, I must admit, it kind of bores me._

_Will I always feel this way? So empty, so estranged._

Bucky’s watching for his reaction, so Steve does his best to give him a little smile; comes out too heavy. 

“My baby boy,” he whispers, blinks back tears as he tucks away a loose strand of hair, strokes at Bucky’s jaw. “What are we gonna do?” 

Bucky’s eyes are clear, steady and locked on his, as he takes Steve’s hand and presses it to his lips. Steve drops his forehead to Bucky’s, squeezes his eyes shut and tries to pretend that they’re in a cabin, somewhere; they’re barely fifteen, which means Steve is still small and weak but at least Bucky never volunteered for a one way trip to hell. 

Cool mountain air rushes in when Clint opens the door, giving them a soft smile before tossing Steve a protein bar and Gatorades. He hands a packet of gummy bears to Bucky, tentative smile on his face which lights up when Bucky rips into them with a happy noise. 

Something clenches in Steve’s chest, and he feels weirdly guilty, because how could he forget that Bucky was Clint’s friend, too? They had been a family, the four of them, and Steve had no right hiding Bucky away for himself. He should have called Clint and Natasha as soon as Bucky reappeared. 

Clint’s watching his face, more perceptive than Steve gives him credit for. He pats Steve’s knee, _forgiven,_ and turns to buckle himself in as Natasha hops back into the truck. Her lips quirk at Bucky’s gummy bears; she reaches over to squeeze Clint’s arm briefly, and something lifts from Steve’s shoulders. If anyone is going to get Bucky out of this mess, or die trying, it’s going to be his family. 

*** 

The Cuddle Demon doesn’t make a reappearance until they reach the boundaries of the property, where they stop to put a protective rune on Bucky to enable him to cross the warnings surrounding the cabin. 

Steve’s studying the rune on Natasha’s phone, preparing to draw it in his own blood on Bucky’s chest, when the little monster sits up suddenly, nearly getting Steve KO’d. 

“Wowee, ace, would’ya get a look at _you_ ,” Bucky whistles, eyes running down Steve’s prone form in a way that makes Steve feel very cheap and dirty. 

“Casanova’s back!” Clint chirps happily.

“Helpful, thank you,” Steve huffs, crowding himself against the door. “Hey, you- keep your hands where I can see them.” 

Bucky gives him a predatory grin, getting his legs up under himself and edging a little closer to Steve. “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this, huh? You got a name, Mister?” 

“His name is Steve,” Natasha grins, while Clint snickers under his breath. Bucky’s face lights up with sudden recognition, eyes blowing black.

“ _Hi_ Stevie, honey, _Stevenshka_ , hi gorgeous,” Bucky coos, wriggling closer, and Steve- Steve really doesn’t know what to do with that. 

“Hi, baby,” he breathes, helpless, which sets Clint off, cackling like this is the funniest thing he’s ever witnessed. And it is sorta funny; at least if Bucky is delusional and putting moves on him, he’s probably not in any pain.

“Alright, alright,” Steve says, taking Bucky firmly by the shoulders, setting him upright so Steve has space to draw the rune. 

“Hey, watch the goods,” Bucky titters when Steve lifts the hem of his shirt up a little, keeps making all sorts of funny little noises as Steve quickly slides a knife against his own palm, then smears the markings into Bucky’s skin. Clint drives them across the property line. “You’re pretty good with your hands, aren’t you, handsome?”

“I’ll really put them to work later if you’re a good boy,” Steve winks, rendering Bucky speechless. Clint nearly drives them into the side of the cabin, he’s laughing so hard. 

***

“Dammit!” Natasha drops another dusty book on the floor, discarded. “How’s he doing?”

Steve shakes his head, bent over Bucky on the couch, wiping at his face with a damp towel. They’ve been at it for hours, trawling through their library of lore, and they haven’t managed to find anything to explain what was happening to Bucky. The fever was worsening- he’d been reduced to moaning unhappily an hour or so ago, panting as his body burned up. 

He gets his thumb on Bucky’s bottom lip, pulls down gently to open his mouth enough to drip in some ice water from a clean towel. “I don’t know how much longer he can take. Oh god, Nat.” 

“I know, I know,” she scrubs her hands through her hair, looking around frantically like she must have missed something, which is when the knock comes at the door.

All heads swivel to the door, like they must be hearing things, but the knock comes again, and then Clint is rushing to the door, Natasha swivelling to put herself between the doorway and the couch. 

It’s pretty much the last person on earth that Steve expects to see.

“Sam?”

Clint has an arm up, barricading the doorway. “How’d you get past my wards?”

Sam takes a long look at Bucky and Steve on the couch, then turns steady eyes to Clint. “You had quite a number of demons surrounding the perimeter. I took care of them.” 

“Who are you?” Natasha demands, low, dangerous.

“He’s my VA counsellor,” Steve says weakly. 

“My name is Samandriel,” Sam says, and his eyes glow blue-white, the shadow of unfurling wings projecting behind him against a golden flash of light. “But you may call me Sam. I am an angel of the Lord.”

Time stands still as Steve tries to process. Bucky gives a full body spasm on the couch, eyes narrowed to black slits as he looks at Sam. “We don’t like that word, he shouldn’t look at us like that.” 

Steve makes a soothing noise, smoothing Bucky’s hair off of his forehead. _Samandriel. An angel of the Lord._ Steve is tense, alert; Natasha mirrors him, eyes locked on Sam with her hand not-so-subtly resting on the base of her gun holster. 

Sam takes in the energy of the room with a calm look, and speaks directly to Steve, low and urgent. “When a demonic soul is reunited with the original host, the bond is very powerful. So powerful that it locks the soul into the body, as if it were human once again.”

Bucky’s breathing has gone shallow, eyes fluttering shut in pain.

“This bond creates a very special and very strong demon, as you have seen. But the soul remains inhuman, and over time, the body begins to reject the soul- like a foreign object. The body becomes infected with demonic power.”

“The fever,” Natasha whispers, shooting a frantic look at Steve.

“Your friend is dying,” Sam says gently, eyes steady on Steve’s. “I can help, if you’ll let me. We need to hurry- I shielded this place from demonic activity, but it won’t hold forever.” 

Clint flexes his arm, still tensed in the door. “Why should we trust you? Why would an angel help a demon?” 

Sam smiles almost sadly at him, then at Bucky. “Because I know what it’s like to be made to fight in a war you did not choose.”

***

Sam explains the entire process twice, enduring Natasha’s interrogation and calmly laying out the reasoning behind each step. Part of Steve wants to shake her until she goes quiet- _Bucky is dying, can’t you see him?_ \- but he knows that she is just being thorough; protective where Steve is desperate. 

The crux of the plan is that they need to purge the demonic blood from Bucky’s body, in order to tether his soul and reverse the fever. The fastest option, Sam explains, is to use his own angelic blood, and inject it directly into Bucky’s veins. Natasha rejects that idea with so much vehemence that even Sam looks a little afraid. 

The alternative- which Steve immediately volunteers for- is for Sam to purify someone else’s blood to use in the transfusion, and repeat the injections every hour, eight in total. Natasha doesn’t put up too much resistance- Steve knows with certainty that he is clean- so it’s agreed. They try their best to explain the plan to Bucky, but he just moans, too far gone. 

Steve’s not sure what he expected from a purification ritual delivered by an angel, but having Sam simply press his hand to Steve’s forehead, eyes glowing blue for a heartbeat, wasn’t it.

“Good luck,” Sam smiles at him, then follows Clint out the front door, presumably to strengthen the wardings around the cottage. Natasha helps Steve take Bucky into their old room, and lays out towels and a sanitised syringe for him. When Clint comes back in with a few lengths of rope and a grim expression on his face, Natasha is the one to tie Bucky’s limp form to the bed.

But this is one thing Steve needs to shoulder alone. 

“Go, Nat,” he says softly, reaching for the tourniquet. “You shouldn’t have to see this.”

She presses a kiss to Bucky’s forehead, and is gone. Steve draws blood.

Bucky whimpers when Steve turns over his arm, feeling for a vein. “I know, baby, just gotta keep fighting for a little longer for me.” 

Steve inserts the syringe, depresses the plunger, and Bucky’s whole back arches off the bed. He lets out a scream that makes Steve’s blood run cold- then it cuts off suddenly, limp body collapsing into the sheets. 

“Bucky?” Steve whispers, voice loud in the sudden silence. Bucky’s head snaps in his direction, too sharp, eyes obsidian. 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he snarls, caged animal. “Stay away from me, you fucking monster.”

Steve recoils, shaking hard as he presses his back to the wall, as far away from the bed as he can get. Presses hard at the needle site in his own forearm. _Even monsters bleed._

“Am I cruel enough for you?” Bucky sneers, unholy eyes fixated on Steve in a way that makes his stomach turn. “When will you get it through your thick skull, huh? He’s not here anymore, pal. Your _Bucky_. Ripped him out in the pit- put something else in. You’re wasting your blood on a corpse.”

_I made this entire journey for you, and I have nothing left to bleed._

Steve breathes in deep, lets it out, slow and steady, before he speaks. “The next injection will be in an hour.” 

Bucky looks at him with pure, cold hatred, then turns his head away.

Steve makes himself stay in the room; curls into the corner, barely blinking as he watches Bucky, times his breaths to the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. 

It seems like Steve’s heart rate has only just begun to slow when his phone buzzes to mark the passing of an hour; time for the next injection. Bucky stares unseeing at the ceiling as Steve preps his arm, only flinches slightly when delivers the next dose. His head lolls towards Steve, big black eyes swirling and glossy wet, whispers, “It burns.” 

“M’sorry, baby,” Steve whispers back, eyes hot. “Only a little while longer, and then it won’t hurt anymore. M’not gonna let anything hurt you anymore.” 

“You let them take me,” Bucky pants, breath coming too shallow, hyperventilating. 

“Buck-” Steve pleads, reaching for Bucky’s hand.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” Bucky sobs, tugging uselessly at the ropes as he tries to curl in on himself, curl away from Steve.

“Ok,” Steve whispers, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Ok.”

The next few hours don’t go much better, and Steve has just completed the fifth dose when he starts to worry that it’s not working- and maybe he’s fucked it up even worse. Then the fever breaks. 

“Stevie?” Bucky mumbles, voice low and gooey. 

“Yes, I’m here, right here, baby,” Steve breathes out in a rush, hovering at the edge of the bed. Bucky fumbles with the ropes, reaches for Steve. Faint with relief, Steve takes his hand, pressing it against his still-damp cheek.

“Wha’s happen’n,” Bucky slurs, shaking a little where he clutches at Steve. 

“Oh, Buck,” Steve inhales, sharp. “You were dying- the fever… we had to purge the demon blood from your system.” 

Bucky’s eyes go round. “M’gonna be human ag’n?”

Steve hesitates, thinking about what Sam had said. _Not quite demon, not quite human._ “You’re going to be Bucky, again.” 

Bucky huffs something like a laugh as his eyes slip closed again. “Y’big sap.” 

The tears are never going to stop. “Yeah Buck. But I’m your big sap.”

“Guh, _Steve_ ,” Bucky groans, flinging Steve’s hand away from himself as Steve laughs wetly. “Mmmf. Can you take these offa me?” 

“Shit, yeah, of course Buck,” Steve cringes, rushing around to untie Bucky from the bedposts. He’s just loosened the last rope when Bucky sits bolt upright in the bed; dead-eye stare. 

“Rookie mistake.”

Steve’s blood runs ice-cold in his veins, terror blanking out his mind. There was still one injection to go, he should have never-

Then Bucky snorts, flopping backwards onto the bed. “Gotcha, punk.” 

Bucky Barnes is an _asshole._

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve wails, crawling up onto the bed to curl around him, over him, in between his bones. Too relieved to be mad. Then the reality of the past few weeks hit him like a freight train, and it all sort of comes out; big, heaving sobs wracking his body.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky sighs, shakily stroking at Steve’s head. “You’re okay, shh. C’mon, quit blubbering, you’re getting me all snotty, hotshot.” 

“Sorry,” Steve gasp-mumbles, pulling back from Bucky’s neck. Big pale eyes sweep over him, that familiar gentle smile tugging at Steve’s chest. Oh god, here he goes again, with the tears.

“Hiya, honey. God, you’re gorgeous.”

Steve snorts unattractively. Bucky’s eye twitches. He pulls Steve back into his chest all the same. 

They sort of lie there for a while, Bucky sweeping one hand up and down Steve’s back when his breath hitches on a half-sob. Bucky’s distracted, eyes unfocused and far away; Steve can barely process everything himself, let alone try and understand what Bucky must be feeling. _Fuck-_ he’s the one supposed to be looking after _Bucky_ , and here he is, sobbing all over the guy who had his own memories tortured out of him for seventy years. 

He pushes up a little, and Bucky meets his wide eyes with a tight smile. “Don’t give me that look, ace. Not pity. I’ll take anything but pity. I don’t deserve it, not from you.”

“Buck-” Steve protests, when his phone alarm goes off. Bucky tenses under him as he scrambles upwards to turn it off.

Bucky’s curled up into a seated position, his knees a barricade between himself and Steve. “It’s the last one, right?” 

“Yeah, I promise, baby,” Steve nods, before turning to prep the syringes, so Bucky can’t see the pity in his eyes. He does it all as efficiently as possible, but hesitates before reaching for Bucky’s arm. “Is this- um, is this okay?”

Bucky blinks at him like he’s not quite sure what he’s being asked.

“I sterilised all the needles before I used them, and it’s my blood- I mean, I’m… clean.” He’s babbling, blushing furiously when Bucky’s face clears in sudden understanding, then goes carefully blank.

“I don’t think demons can get diseases,” he says quietly, eyes not meeting Steve’s; and Steve can hear his heartbeat at the base of his skull, blood rushing in his ears, because what is Bucky _saying_ , is he saying that…. 

They don’t have time for this conversation. 

“Ok,” Steve whispers, prepping Bucky’s arm with an alcohol swab. 

“Besides,” Bucky continues, voice flat. “You are my next of kin. I think I gave up the right to choose what happens to this body when I sold my soul to hell.”

Steve freezes, needle hovering over too-warm skin. His voice comes out too sharp, anguished. “Bucky. You always have the right to choose what happens to your body. Nobody, not even me, is allowed to- to _touch_ you, without your permission. Even- _fuck_ , even this. I shouldn’t have done this without your consent. You tell me to stop, right now, and I will.”

Bucky is looking at him with an unreadable expression in his eyes; so bright, sapphire blue. He offers his arm to Steve, voice small when he speaks. “I trust you.” 

Steve nods, not trusting his voice; injects the syringe. Bucky hisses, and the shakes start. 

“Stevie,” he whimpers, “will you h-hold me?” 

Like a meteor caught in his gravity, Steve crashes into Bucky, thinks maybe if he grips tight enough he can stop his bones from shaking apart. It feels like the longest hour yet, Bucky reduced to whimpers and gasps. Steve doesn’t realise he’s been babbling reassurances, whispering them into Bucky’s hair, until the shaking stops, and they both take a few deep breaths. Steve pulls back a little to get a look at Bucky’s face, brushing hair out of his eyes- wide and blue, not a trace of black.

“I think it worked,” Bucky breathes out, something like shock. Then he starts crying. Big, fat tears, not like those strange dry sobs. He reaches up, touches at the tears on his own cheeks in wonder. “Human after all.” 

Steve kisses him; hard. After everything, they made it. Back here, in their bed, with all the stupid blankets Bucky made him buy, and Bucky’s books on the shelves, and their friends are outside, and Bucky is in his arms, and _they made it._

The kiss turns heated, quick; Bucky arches up into him, and the lights flicker. Steve laughs into his mouth a little. “Maybe not entirely human.” 

Bucky rolls him, looking down at him with so much fondness that Steve can barely stand it. “You’re a punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve returns, leaning up to get his mouth on Bucky’s again, when something in the corner of the room catches Bucky’s attention. 

It’s the picture of the two of them in the grass by the lake, eighteen and so in love that Clint and Natasha refused to be around them that whole summer. The glass is shattered on the floor; left there from when Steve flung it at the wall, in what feels like a lifetime ago. 

Bucky studies the scene, then turns the full force of his glare onto Steve. “ _Messy._ ” 

Steve’s whole chest seizes, then he’s laughing so hard that even Bucky has trouble maintaining a glare. “Yeah, baby. I’m a real mess without you. Guess that means you’re stuck with me.” 

“Guess so,” Bucky huffs, leaning down. The sun sets in the west, and all Steve tastes is sugar and sunshine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all comments and feedback is appreciated xx


	2. Epilogue

Sam hadn’t made a big deal out of it, the first time Bucky went along with Steve to one of those VA meetings. 

The last time Bucky had been here, Sam had damn near killed him, cornering him in the back parking lot. Then he’d looked at Bucky, really _looked_ , eyes freaky and blue; said _‘oh’_ , backed off. Told Bucky to ‘hang in there, kid, I’m going to get you some help’, and vanished. 

True to his word, Sam had gone and pretty much saved his sorry excuse for a life, then turned around and made sure every spooky thing was well and truely aware that this whole town was under angelic protection.

Having an angel on your side was a very good thing, Bucky decided. Even if he was mostly certain that this particular angel seemed to have defected from heaven itself. But hey, who was he to judge? Nobody even really knew what Bucky _was_. 

“You’re just Bucky,” Steve would tell him, all dumb with love, that stupid sappy grin on his stupid pretty face. Bucky would do just about anything to keep that look on his face. 

Which explains why Bucky’s wearing his favourite pink scarf to the VA meeting tonight, wrapped up high to half-cover his face. If they are going to make him listen to people talking about their feelings in public, it was either this or the black mercenary bandana. Which Steve had indefinitely banned.

“It’s so _ugly,_ ” Steve crowed, delighted, as he tugged at Bucky’s scarf, trying to get a glimpse of his glaring face. 

“Pink is a non-threatening colour,” Bucky grumped, voice flat. “And it’s fuzzy.” 

Steve just beams at him, tucking him into his side as they wait for the meeting to start. Bucky stiffens, but relaxes once he realises that nobody is paying them any attention.

The meeting is- better than he remembered. Not that he was really listening, last time. He finds himself going ‘oh, yeah, me too,’ when the veterans share their stories. He can see why Steve likes it here. 

Then again, Steve was always much better at talking about feelings. Bucky preferred to keep it all bottled up, until Steve got him _down,_ in that fuzzy headspace where everything was nice and nothing hurt; and that’s where he could let go, trusting Steve would catch him when he fell. 

“Right, Buck?” Steve is saying, jostling his arm a little as he gathers their coats. Bucky blinks back to himself, catches Sam watching him with a funny little smile. Bucky scowls at him as his face heats, even though he’s pretty sure Sam can’t read minds. Like over fifty-percent sure. 

“Baby?” Steve’s looking at him carefully, tracking the flush in his cheeks. “Y’okay?”

Bucky blinks up at him a little dumbly, hearing gone a little soft and fuzzy around the edges. Steve’s shoulders roll back, easy and confident, and it makes something in Bucky relax, slip a little further. 

“C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get you home,” Steve murmurs, holding Bucky’s coat out for him to slide his arms into. Steve wraps a sturdy arm around his waist, guiding him towards the door, tossing a cheery wave to Sam as they go. 

Bucky shivers into Steve as they step out into the cold winter evening. Steve reaches over to pull Bucky’s scarf up more securely around his face, flashing him that golden smile, and Bucky melts against him; eyes slipping shut, so overwhelmed with warmth, all gooey and molten with love. 

Steve catches him. Steve always catches him when he falls. 

*** 

He senses her presence before he hears her; not sure if it’s a kinda-demon-kinda-human thing, or just a Natasha-Bucky thing. She’s angry. She’s been angry for a while.

He turns, leans against the kitchen counter, face carefully blank. “Have at it.”

“You know, I understand why you made the deal,” Natasha shrugs, acting. “You did it for Steve. Sure. We all do crazy things for the people we love.” 

Her face turns to stone. “But did you even _think_ what it was going to do to him? After you were gone? Or are you just that selfish that you didn’t care enough to tell him?” 

“Of course I fucking cared,” he hissed, kitchen lights flickering. “Everything I have ever done has been for Steve. Do you really think he would have just let me go, let me get dragged off, if he knew?”

“I know for a fact that he didn’t- _couldn’t_ let you go, James. Not for _years_. He spent years hunting down every demon he could get his hands on, trying to figure out a way to bring you back. It nearly killed him.” Her eyes snap to his, and she slumps a little, fire burning out. “You nearly killed him. All of those years you threw away, and for what?” 

Bucky’s eyes are swimming, stuck on the floor, and he realises he’s never talked about this, not even with Steve. He’s been bearing it all on his shoulders for so long. “I just wanted him to have a better life,” he whispered. “I was just a kid.” 

Suddenly he’s in Natasha’s arms, and she’s got one arm firmly around his lower back, the other cradling his head, stroking carefully at his hair. She allows him to pull himself together, then steps back, pretends not to notice the way his eyes are a little damp. 

“He won’t survive something like that again,” she says, not-unkindly. “I don’t think either of you will. Maybe it’s time to think about getting out. Start a new life, somewhere.”

Bucky snorts, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, maybe I’ll become a handyman, we can have a nice little house in the suburbs.” 

Natasha nods at him like he’s presented a viable plan, and that makes him pause, a little. “Steve could be a teacher. Or a scout leader. Something with kids.” 

Bucky holds her eye, and nods. “I’ll think about it. Now- is the serious part of this conversation over?” 

Natasha huffs a laugh, easing the tension. “Yes, James. Why? Got somewhere to be?”

He rummages in the kitchen drawer with his back to her, then turns with a bright smile, shoving a crazy straw into his glass of chocolate milk. “ _Da._ Miss Congeniality is on TV.” 

“Clint needs to stop enabling you.” 

*** 

Bucky is just about to win the staring match when stupid loud-mouth Steve starts screaming from the kitchen. 

“James _Buchanan_ Barnes! Are you insane?! Three _hundred_ dollars for- _this_?!” 

Full name treatment. He’s mad. Bucky is not going to be the first to blink. 

Steve clomps up the stairs all huffy. “I mean, come on, Bucky, I know you love her, but we ain’t exactly made of money, here- _what on earth_ are you doing?” 

“I did not endure seventy years of torture to lose a staring contest with this creature,” Bucky murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, not moving an inch from where he’s laying prone on the bed, nose to nose with a wriggling little ball of white and grey fur.

She barks happily when she sees Steve in the doorway, tongue lolling out as she trips over herself in her excitement to bound towards him.

“Hah!” Bucky shouted, pumping both fists in the air, then flopping on his back. “I win! Suck on that, you dumb little fucker!” 

“Bucky,” Steve frowny-faces at him, scooping the puppy up before she catapults herself off of the bed. “I hope you don’t talk to her like that in public.”

“Gimme,” Bucky ignores him, making grabby hands at Steve until he deposits the puppy onto Bucky’s chest. All of Steve’s righteous indignity visibly fades as Bucky giggles- a sound he will never admit to making- when she starts licking at his face. There is a beautiful moment of domestic bliss, then Steve remembers why he came stomping up here in the first place. 

“Three hundred dollars for a doggy bed! Bucky!” 

“Stop screeching,” Bucky grumbles. “You’ll hurt Talia’s widdle ears.” Her full name was Natalia, which Natasha pretended to hate but secretly loved- she always brought those fancy organic dog treats when she came to visit.

“I’m gonna hurt your widdle _something_ , Buck,” Steve growls, lunging for him on the bed. 

Bucky rolls away, cradling Talia as he goes. “Elder abuse!” 

“What?” Steve huffs, bewildered as usual. God, he was hopeless when Bucky was being charming. It’s lucky for him that Demon Bucky wasn’t out to do any real damage.

“I’m like ninety years old now, Steven,” Bucky snarked, tucking Talia into his henley so her squishy little face could distract Steve from their bank statements. “You’d better be nice to me, ace. You gold digger.”

“You’re dreaming if you think I married you for your financial savviness, champ,” Steve snorts, flopping himself over Bucky’s stomach. “Three hundred dollars.” 

Bucky strokes at Steve’s hair with one hand. “Tali is a princess, she deserves it.”

“Tali is a French Bulldog; she doesn’t need a feather-down dog bed, B.” 

He gives Steve his best pout. “ _Seventy years_ of torture.”

“Don’t do this to me, baby,” Steve groans, crawling his way up to kiss at Bucky’s forehead, which is how Bucky knows he has won this round, too. Big sap.

“Mine,” Bucky growls, wriggling himself down until he’s all caged in by Steve, nice and protected and muscly. “You’re my big sap.” 

Steve doesn’t protest this statement, just starts petting sweetly at Bucky’s hair, peppering little kisses all over his face. Bucky is a little- different, since his time in the pit. He just wants Steve near him, all the time. It helps remind him that he’s really here, that it isn’t another tortuous mind game. They weren’t allowed to touch him, in the pit. Steve seems to understand this need to be touched- _all the time_ \- even without Bucky having to explain it, which makes Bucky feel like he’s going to burst into tears if he thinks about it too much. 

That’s new, too- the crying, the _feelings_. They come out sometimes, now, even when he isn’t _down_ , in that nice place, where it’s so easy to let go. No, now his traitorous brain refuses to repress everything; it wants him to deal with stuff, which is ugly and messy, and if he didn’t have Steve to worry about then Bucky thinks he might have just disappeared into the mountains a long time ago to scream at the trees. 

And Bucky does worry, underneath all his snark and poor coping mechanisms. He worries that he’s put Steve through too much- that one day Steve will get tired of always having to be the strong one, and just up and leave. Sure, Bucky is- was- good at hunting, can keep him safe, and he’s good at making Steve laugh, and he’s _real_ good and making him moan, but he’s never been able to take care of Steve the way Steve’s always taken care of him. The one time he tried to take care of Steve, he signed his own life away and broke Steve’s heart in the process. He’s not good with processing what’s in his own head, not good with his words, not careful enough with Steve’s feelings; fragile like crystal in his clumsy hands.

Steve is this bright and glowing thing, and Bucky is the darkness, that stitched-together monster waiting in the shadows.

“You with me, baby?” Steve murmurs against his shoulder, and Bucky startles, realises he’d spaced out, again. Talia is curled up at their feet, gnawing a little on Steve’s socked toes; he’s wearing some of Bucky’s fluffy pink and green ones. They look like watermelons. It’s a fair mistake to make, if you’re a little cutie with a pea-sized brain.

“Sorry,” Bucky breathes out, and abruptly feels tears prickling at his eyes. 

Steve pulls him in close, tucking Bucky’s face into his neck, just how he likes. “Don’t be sorry, baby. I can hear your brain working overtime from over here. What’s going on in there, huh?”

Bucky muffles his voice into Steve’s throat. “You don’t wanna see inside my brain, pal. It’s too dark for you.” 

He feels Steve freeze, caught off guard by Bucky’s sudden melancholy. “You’re never too dark for me, Buck. You know that, right?” 

Bucky hums noncommittally. 

“Alright, you better listen carefully, sweetheart. I don’t care if I’ve gotta tell you every day for the rest of forever; you’re stuck with me, pal. There’s nothing you or anyone else can do, dead or alive, to get rid of me. I mean- they tried, didn't go so well, huh. I’m here for all of it; your ridiculous clothes, your sugar addiction, your horrible green earbuds- that grumpy face- I love you, Buck. All of you.”

Bucky squirms, uncomfortable with the onslaught of affection. Steve just looks at him with this soft expression, then hauls Talia up to lick at Bucky’s face until he starts giggling again. 

“C’mon,” Steve says, tugging at the pink scrunchie holding Bucky’s hair in a low, messy bun; fixing him up, knows that Bucky likes things neat. “I bought that gross ice cream you like.” 

Vanilla Caramel Swirl Cookie Dough Surprise. Bucky perks up a little. “Sprinkles?” 

“Yes,” Steve huffs, rolling his eyes as he gets to his feet. “C’mon, we’ll all go sit on Tali’s expensive new bed and eat ice cream.” 

“She’s my little lady and she deserves nice things,” Bucky cooed, rubbing Talia’s wet nose against his. 

“I hope it was worth it!” Steve calls as he heads down the stairs, all golden and so good it hurts. 

Bucky smiles, something warm and light in his chest. “Yeah. I think it was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Demon!Bucky art!!!  ](https://www.instagram.com/p/CE0UrQSBNkP/)
> 
> There’s a lot of references in this fic to work that is not mine (credit listed below!):
> 
> Song in the bar when Nat’s interrogating Steve: ‘Peace In the Valley’ by Elvis Presley  
>  Quote Bucky writes into the paperback cover: ‘Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep’ by Mary Elizabeth Frye  
>  Poem Bucky reads in the library: ‘Bluebird’ by Charles Bukowski  
>  Song in the grocery store: ‘Sittin’ On the Dock of the Bay’ by Otis Redding  
>  Steve talking about the mask: ‘Dilly’ by Band of Horses  
>  Second quote from Bucky in a paperback based on: ‘Words, Wide Night’ by Carol Ann Duffy  
>  Song Bucky sings in the bar: ‘Look What They’ve Done To My Song’ by Melanie  
>  Graffiti in the alleyway: ‘The Tavern’ by Rumi  
>  Quote about mercy: From ‘Love is a Dog From Hell’ by Charles Bukowski  
>  Song Bucky makes Steve listen to in the truck: ‘Empty’ by Ray LaMontagne
> 
> Some other songs I listened to while writing:
> 
> ‘I Found’ by Amber Run  
>  ‘Peace Train’ by Cat Stevens  
>  ‘Orfeo ed Euridice, Wq. 30: Danse des champs-elysées’ by Christoph Willibald Gluck  
>  ‘Border Song’ (the Taron Egerton cover)  
>  ‘Me and the Devil’ by Soap&Skin


End file.
